When it’s all been said and done

Today I played for the funeral of a regional icon. He was the father of a colleague, a band director who had recently been inducted into the Bandmasters’ Hall of Fame, and he was mourned by half the state. I hate funerals almost as much as I hate weddings, simply because they can range from respectful to ridiculously indulgent, and seem to mainly be an opportunity for blowhards to stand behind a podium and show their verbal prowess.

Today was not one of those prowess-type things. Instead, it made me think really hard about the value of a life, especially a life well-lived. I made it all about me, of course, since that’s a special gift I have, and I wondered, what will they say about me? If I went Home today, what would be my story?

I am afraid that far more would be remembered of the tears and the crabbiness, the desperate clinging to the few I would let into my pitiful existence, than of the times I had people spitting food and drink at my one-liners. One guy told me he would only take a bite at dinner when somebody else was talking, cuz I always made him choke. Laughing and ham sandwiches don’t co-exist very well. There are lots of those moments, but I can only remember the crying. How can anyone else do any differently?

I’ve always taken myself too seriously. I am supposed to be perfect, you know, and nobody will love me if I make a mistake. Right? I didn’t figure out I could be funny until college, and my first principal even wrote “no sense of humor” on my evaluation. He was an idiot who didn’t bother to do anything except recruit student spies (he admitted this), so he never knew thing one about me. His loss. See? There’s a little self-esteem left in there.

So. My story. “Zoe was a gifted musician who ..” Oh, heck. I can’t write that crap about myself. I just hope that somewhere along the way someone gets a glimpse inside the Great Wall of Babe and realizes he or she saw something good. I hope there is someone who will step up and say they are glad for my having been born. I know no one will hold up my Bible and show the worn-out pages and abundant markings, like they did for Gene today, and that, too, saddens me. Maybe there’s time to fix that, unless the twinkies catch up with me this weekend.